A young man, gaunt, pale, wrapped in blankets, half sat, half reclined in an invalid’s chair; the old lady, on her knees, the tears streaming down her face, had her arms around the sick man’s neck; while the other man, apparently upset at the scene, tugged vigorously at long, gray mustaches.

“Sammy!  Sammy!” sobbed the woman piteously.  “Say you didn’t do it, Sammy—­say you didn’t do it!”

“Look here, Mrs. Matthews,” said the man with the gray mustaches gently, “now don’t you go to making things any harder.  I’ve got to do my duty just the same, and take your son.”

The young man, a hectic flush beginning to burn on his cheeks, gazed wildly from one to the other.

“What—­what is it?” he cried out.

The man threw back his coat and displayed a badge on his vest.

“I’m Kline of the secret service,” he said gravely.  “I’m sorry, Sammy, but I want you for that little job in Washington at the bureau—­before you left on sick leave!”

Sammy Matthews struggled away from his mother’s arms, pulled himself forward in his chair—­and his tongue licked dry lips.

“What—­what job?” he whispered thickly.

“You know, don’t you?” the other answered steadily.  He took a large, flat pocketbook from his pocket, opened it, and took out a five-dollar bill.  He held this before the sick man’s eyes, but just out of reach, one finger silently indicating the lower left-hand corner.

Matthews stared at it for a moment, and the hectic flush faded to a grayish pallor, and a queer, impotent sound gurgled in his throat.

“I see you recognise it,” said the other quietly.  “It’s open and shut, Sammy.  That little imperfection in the plate’s got you, my boy.”

“Sammy!  Sammy!” sobbed the woman again.  “Sammy, say you didn’t do it!”

“It’s a lie!” said Matthews hoarsely.  “It’s a lie!  That plate was condemned in the bureau for that imperfection—­condemned and destroyed.”

“Condemned to be destroyed,” corrected the other, without raising his voice.  “There’s a little difference there, Sammy—­about twenty years’ difference—­in the Federal pen.  But it wasn’t destroyed; this note was printed from it by one of the slickest gangs of counterfeiters in the United States—­but I don’t need to tell you that, I guess you know who they are.  I’ve been after them a long time, and I’ve got them now, just as tight as I’ve got you.  Instead of destroying that plate, you stole it, and disposed of it to the gang.  How much did they give you?”

Matthews’ face seemed to hold a dumb horror, and his fingers picked at the arms of the chair.  His mother had moved from beside him now, and both her hands were patting at the man’s sleeve in a pitiful way, while again and again she tried to speak, but no words would come.

“It’s a lie!” said Matthews again, in a colourless, mechanical way.

The man glanced at Mrs. Matthews as he put the five-dollar note back into his pocket, seemed to choke a little, shook his head, and all trace of the official sternness that had crept into his voice disappeared.